Glass Jars and Fragile Hearts

Some men just don't know how to show how much they care about a girl.

This is a basic tenet of life I had to learn at a young age.

There was the jerk who called me so many names in school that he launched a firestorm of harassment aimed in my direction. It turns out he actually had a crush on me - he just didn't know how to handle it.

Then there was Frank, the object of my youthful affection and the first pair of lips I kissed.

We were neighborhood pals, part of a brood who'd roam the neighborhood in the summertime to play Super Mario Brothers during the day and Ghost in the Graveyard at night.

Frank and I were tight - as tight as two kids could be. We shared the same strange genetic code that was responsible for horribly kinky, white-kid-afro hair. Our moms laughed that when we grew up and got married, our children would come out looking like Chia Pets.

A year younger than my highly esteemed 12 years of age, Frank and his slowly percolating hormones didn't know how to handle me and my bangin' physique (well, what else would a boy that age call a girl who was entitled to wear an underwire?)

I went to horseback riding camp for two weeks, and sources a very nosy younger sister say that while I was gone Frank came to my back window before bed time and serenaded me with his personal rendition of Blue Moon. Frank would chase me and pull me down to the ground when we played tag, and for just a moment, it was clear this wasn't the kind of tackle he'd use to punish someone on the football field.

And then he threw the glass jar at me.

There I was, minding my own business, walking to a very important business appointment (AKA babysitting gig), when he ran down the hill that was his front yard, chucking a Mason jar - not the little one, but the big one your grandma used for canning green beans - right at the foot of my white, woven sandals.

Frank's mom asked him why he did such a thing, and he sheepishly replied, "But, Mom! I like her..."

Isn't that what they always say?

More than 20 years later, I notice guys pulling the same stunts on women. They show interest, do something to hurt us, and then run for home base.

I don't know what it is, exactly. Do these men not know how to express how they feel about a woman? Are they uncertain about the consequences of their feelings? Do they (perhaps incorrectly) worry that if they tackle a girl in a game of tag, they're going to end up living happily ever after and having lots and lots of Chia Pet babies?

The thing is, maybe I DO want to have Chia Pet babies someday. Maybe I do want to find that one guy who's up for an eternal game of Ghosts in the Graveyard. I want to find the guy who will give me the better Nintendo control because he enjoys watching *me* rescue the princess.

My heart is fragile, but I am patient and willing to play a few more rounds of tag to find the right guy.

And this time, if anyone chucks a glass jar at me - I'm throwing it back at 'em.


Kate's Random Musings by Kate the Great is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.